Kaleidoscope by Dorothy Gilman Read Free Book Online Page A

She’s been right about a helluva lot of things but can anyone be a hundred percent right all the time? I can’t, just can’t believe—”
    â€œLet’s just get started,” Pruden said grimly. “It’s not going to be easy.”
    They decided it was best not to approach Epworth’s lawyer about the will yet, there being no rational explanation to give him for any inquiry. Not yet, at least, with Mrs. Epworth still under a doctor’s care. City Hall first, maiden name at marriage, hopefully an old address or two . . . “Married how long?” asked Pruden.
    â€œEight years.”
    By noon they’d learned that Mrs. Epworth’s maiden name was Joanna Warren, and at the time of her marriage she’d lived at 29 Cozzen Street in Trafton. In the basement of the
Trafton Times
they pored over accounts of the wedding; the bride was a native of New York City, and private secretary to Mr. Epworth’s partner at the Epworth-Bartlett Company. With birth date and birthplace established they repaired to computers at headquarters but learned very little, except for the fact that she’d been ticketed twice for speeding, and was born in Brooklyn.
    About Joanna Warren Epworth as a living, breathing person they learned nothing. Apparently once she married a well-known and successful financier the personality became obscured, decided Pruden, and what they needed was to learn who she had once been, and hope to meet the present Joanna in a day or two.
    This left 29 Cozzen Street, where someone might possibly remember her, even after so many years. “Highly doubtful,” Swope agreed.
    Twenty-nine Cozzen Street was a modest apartment house on a tree-lined street at the edge of town, and here they met with a modicum of luck. The superintendent had been there for years, and he did remember her.
    â€œStunning blonde,” he said. “Attracted men like flies. But nice.”
    â€œAnd would there be anyone in the building now who knew her when she lived here?”
    He thought a moment, frowning. “It being rent-controlled, most tenants have been here a long time. Miss Jacoby would be the one to see . . . Miss Abby Jacoby. Lived next to her, and close friends, if I remember rightly.”
    â€œWould she be here now? What apartment number?”
    â€œThirty-two,” he said. “She comes and goes, what you call a buyer. New York. The department stores, you know? Think she came back last night.”
    â€œThanks,” said Pruden, and they headed for apartment 32 and rang the buzzer.
    Abby Jacoby opened the door to them in pajamas and a robe, a vivacious-looking fortyish woman, slim as a reed, her shingled hair an attractive and unembarrassed silvery gray. “Oh, limey,” she said with a grin, “the police, and me in pajamas in daylight!”
    It was impossible not to smile back at her.
    â€œCome in, come in,” she said. “I always take a day off after a week in New York . . . nobody in the fashion business seems to go to bed until the sun comes up.”
    Without the slightest self-consciousness she sat herself on the arm of a chair and said, “Okay, what have I done?”
    Swope grinned. “Strictly a routine inquiry, Miss Jacoby. Have you happened to see the Trafton newspapers since you returned?”
    â€œJust call me Abby,” she told them, and then, “Oh my gosh, Joanna’s husband! I came in last night and turned on the news . . . only the tail end of it. Eulogies, and all that about him, I suppose that means he’s dead?” Swope nodded. “Poor Joanna.”
    â€œHave you remained friends?” asked Pruden.
    â€œAre you kidding? No, we were good friends when she lived here, but she went her merry way. I have to admit I was startled when I read of her marrying Mr. Epworth.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Swope.
    She looked from one to the other and said, “Look, what’s this all